


The Annals:  Part Three of An Irregular Series

by Nightdog_Barks



Series: The Annals [3]
Category: House M.D.
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Ancient Rome, Friendship, Gen, Historical
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-04-25
Updated: 2007-04-25
Packaged: 2017-10-18 04:41:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/185106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nightdog_Barks/pseuds/Nightdog_Barks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just how long have House and Wilson known each other?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Annals:  Part Three of An Irregular Series

**Author's Note:**

> Not just AU, but historical AU. Once again I have taken some (minor) liberties with the real world; I hope the history gods find it in their hearts to forgive me.

_**Housefic: The Annals: Part Three of An Irregular Series**_  
 **STATUS:** Crossposted to [](http://house-wilson.livejournal.com/profile)[**house_wilson**](http://house-wilson.livejournal.com/) on 1/27/07. My deepest apologies for the delay in posting to this journal; for quite a while we were having serious 'Net connection issues.  
 **TITLE:** The Annals: Part Three of An Irregular Series  
 **AUTHOR:** [](http://nightdog-writes.livejournal.com/profile)[**nightdog_writes**](http://nightdog-writes.livejournal.com/)  
 **PAIRING:** House-Wilson friendship, other original characters  
 **RATING:** PG-13  
 **WARNINGS:** None.  
 **SPOILERS:** No; it's just a story.  
 **SUMMARY:** Just how long have House and Wilson known each other?  
 **DISCLAIMER:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
 **AUTHOR NOTES:** Not just AU, but historical AU. Once again I have taken some (minor) liberties with the real world; I hope the history gods find it in their hearts to forgive me.  
As always, thanks must go to the most amazing First Readers anyone could wish for. Their patience in the face of what must've seemed like a never-ending cycle was incredible, and their discussions, pokings, and editorial suggestions invaluable. There's no way I'll ever be able to thank them enough.  
Source notes are at the very end.  
 **BETA: Silverjackal,** who said, "Where are we going next?"

[The Annals: Part One of An Irregular Series](http://community.livejournal.com/house_wilson/617982.html#cutid1)   
[The Annals: Part Two of an Irregular Series](http://community.livejournal.com/house_wilson/764546.html#cutid1)

  
 **The Annals: Part Three of An Irregular Series**

  
 _A fronte praecipitium, a tergo lupi.  
A precipice in front, wolves behind._

  
James had suspected the day would come when he would regret the decision he had made in Britannia. He just hadn't expected it to arrive only a few months later in the dim forests of Germania, surrounded by dead Roman soldiers and live barbarians. Now he sat, back against one of the mighty forest oaks, his knees drawn up to his chin. He was trembling with shock, the noise of the ambush still ringing in his ears.

The tribesmen had come bursting out of the woods without any warning. They'd seemed like warriors from some awful fable -- tall and red-haired in armor and furs, wielding their spears with deadly efficiency. The small squadron of cavalry acting as James's escort had had no time for a proper defense. They had hurriedly tried to form a square but it was already too late. The soldiers' shouts had echoed in the forest. Somewhere a mortally wounded horse had been screaming, the sound splitting the cold November air. The square had fallen apart; in the space of a few minutes it had become every man for himself as the barbarians swept down like avenging eagles.

Weaponless, James had seen almost immediately that he'd have a better chance hiding on foot than running on horseback, so he had slipped from the back of the tall cavalry mount he'd been assigned that morning and sprinted into the woods. He could only hope none of the tribesmen had seen the slave in the gray cloak making an escape.

The skirmish hadn't lasted long; James could hear the groans of the dying soldiers and the Germanic raiders moving around. His mouth was dry with fear and he forced himself to breathe more softly. Gradually the sounds behind him quieted and he risked a quick peek from behind the tree.

His breath stopped in his throat as he looked straight into the face of a barbarian warrior. For a long frozen moment the two men stared at each other, then the warrior grinned in a distinctly wolf-like manner, revealing straight, white teeth. James shot to his feet and was immediately wrapped in a bear hug from behind. Arms pinned to his sides, any attempt at a struggle was thwarted as his captor simply lifted him off his feet and squeezed tighter. The first tribesman, he of the wolf grin, stepped closer and pulled a long double-sided dagger from a sheath on his wide leather belt.

 _I'm going to die here,_ James thought. His guts felt like they were turning to water and sliding around. _God damn the Roman and his insane botanical expeditions._

He hung in the warrior's arms, watching as the knife came up, angling towards his throat. Held as he was in his captor's tight grip, he could feel the warmth of the other man's furs, the rise and fall of the tall warrior's chest against his own back. He closed his eyes.

Nothing happened.

The pressure on his ribs eased just a bit, and he opened his eyes and drew in a gasping breath. A third tribesman had joined them, his hand staying his companion's killing stroke and stopping James's imminent execution. The slave stared in surprise. It was the warrior who had been in the Roman camp only yesterday.

The warrior holding James lowered him a bit until his feet were touching the ground again, but kept his captive safely enclosed in a brawny grip. The barbarian who had saved him was nodding. "A day of gifts," he said, in the same well-accented Latin James had heard the day before. "The gods send us Romans to kill, and a healer to keep." His smile was wide and feral. "We meet again, Androcles."

The other two warriors began to laugh as James stood in stunned astonishment, held upright only by a ferocious Germanic bear-hug.

  


* * *

  
It had been a seemingly innocent encounter -- the tame tribesmen visiting the Roman encampment. A dozen of them, including the leader's wife and children, wandering about the environs, looking curiously at the soldiers, the stacked weapons, the ordinary sights of the camp. Longinus had trailed after them, his jaw working furiously. The Romans were under strict orders to offer no provocation, to be courteous, to be _nice,_ and it rankled. He'd had missive after missive from Rome -- the loss of the three Legions under Quinctilius Varus, some sixty-odd years ago, still touched raw emotions even now, and peace along the Rhine frontier was to be maintained at all costs.

The accident happened when the visitors were almost directly in front of the medical tent. One instant the barbarians were standing about -- the next, the small daughter of the chieftain was on the ground, wailing.

James had gotten to her first, kneeling in the dirt next to the toddler. The tribal leader knelt next to him, his bright blue eyes narrow with suspicion. The surgeon had hovered behind both of them, with Longinus making the foursome complete. Oblivious to them all, the little girl cried and clutched at her right foot.

"Hush, shhhhh," James soothed, reaching for the toddler's leg. A large hand on his wrist stopped him and he looked up. The barbarian leader's gaze met his, warning him off.

"It's all right, I am a healer," the slave snapped. Too late, he realized the tribesman probably didn't understand Latin, and was therefore surprised when the chieftain loosened his grip and nodded. James turned his attention back to the little girl, scooping her into his arms and carrying her to a nearby stool.

"Careful, James," the surgeon muttered.

"I'm not making any sudden moves," James replied softly. The warriors were pressing close around them as the slave gently grasped the girl's foot and inspected the sole. The toddler had stopped crying and was looking up at him with eyes the color of spring cornflowers.

"Do _all_ these wild folk have blue eyes?" James mumbled. The Roman grinned. "Here, little one," he continued, "you've got a rather large splinter stuck in there." A pair of surgical tweezers appeared in his line of sight, handed to him by the Roman. James took them and carefully balanced the little girl on his lap. The toddler's father crouched next to them.

"Once upon a time," James said, still speaking softly to the young girl, "there was a man named Androcles." He knew the child probably didn't understand a word of what he was saying, but he hoped his gentle tone would keep the toddler from panicking when the splinter was drawn.

The father's eyes shifted from his daughter to James, then back again. He leaned forward in his crouch and smoothed back a stray blonde hair from the child's left ear. The chieftain said something, a long string of harsh consonants in which James could catch only two words -- Androcles, and lion.

He glanced up at the surgeon, who was watching closely, his brows drawn together. _So,_ James thought. _A barbarian who knows the Greek tales, and has been educated ... somewhere._

Concentrating on the task at hand, he continued the story of Androcles and the lion as he probed as gently as possible around the splinter. It was a wicked-looking piece of wood, easily a finger's-breadth long. Luckily it had only penetrated a short way into the tender arch of the child's foot. His voice and that of the warrior's formed a duet, moving seamlessly through the ancient tale. The toddler was listening to her father but looking at him, and in a moment James had grasped the end of the splinter and extracted it. He held it up in front of the child's eyes.

"And so the lion spared the life of Androcles, and they were friends forever," he said.

The surgeon bent down, cleaning the small wound on the girl's foot with an ammonia-soaked cloth. "Good work, James," he said.

"Yes, good work," the Germanic chieftain echoed as his daughter squealed and tried to pull her foot away from the stinging antiseptic. Her father said something, his tone stern, and she sat still as the Roman discarded the cloth in favor of a clean bandage, which he wrapped around the toddler's foot.

"We thank you," the warrior continued. His Latin was correct and only lightly accented. "Your hospitality and assistance are well met." His tone was polite but his eyes were cold, and James caught the angry frown on Longinus's face. The chieftain rose easily to his feet, then lifted his daughter from James's lap, holding her close to his chest. He nodded at the surgeon and at James, pointedly ignoring the centurion. One of the other tribesmen muttered something in their harsh tongue; the chieftain's answering laugh caused the rest of the warriors to smile also. They turned their backs on the Romans and the slave and headed for their horses.

James looked up at the surgeon. The Roman's eyes were narrowed as he watched the barbarians depart, and the slave felt an unaccustomed chill at his expression.

 _"Even at peace, they tremble on the edge of war, and no man ploughs the soil with curving blade,"_ the surgeon murmured. James searched his memories for the source of the quote. The Roman waited a moment, then his familiar grin re-asserted itself.

"Why, James," he drawled, "no recognition of the great Ovid?" He appeared immensely pleased with himself, and it was only with great effort that the slave kept from rolling his eyes. The surgeon enjoyed his victory a moment longer, then became serious again.

"Germanicus defeated these people at the Weser River decades ago," he said. "Some of them have never forgotten."

The chill returned, and James took a breath and settled his shoulders to try and drive it away. "Probably we will never see them again," he said.

The Roman glanced at him. "It would be a fascinating study," he replied, more to himself than to James. "But you're right -- it would probably be for the best if this was our first and last encounter."

  


* * *

  
James was sitting against a tree again, but this time his hands were bound behind him. As an added measure a length of rawhide rope was cinched around his left ankle; the other end looped and knotted around the tree trunk. He was watching the wild tribesmen looting the Roman corpses.

They were taking everything they could carry or strap onto the backs of their horses. The warriors were laughing and joking, rummaging through the dead soldiers' kits, hefting knives and the short swords the Romans called _gladii._ They discarded the Roman cavalry shields so much smaller than their own, but pulled off some of the woollen cloaks and other clothing. They'd been particularly interested in one of the older cavalrymen ( _Marcus, his name had been Marcus,_ James remembered) and had stripped him naked. Now he lay in the grass, sightless eyes staring up at the sky, his pale skin a ghostly contrast to the forest green. The slave had known only one of the other soldiers, a native British youth named Gaius who had taught him a counting rhyme for the black-and-white birds the Britons called chatterpies. It came to him now as he sat and watched the casual destruction around him.

 _One for sorrow,  
Two for joy,  
Three for a girl,  
Four for a boy,  
Five for silver,  
Six for gold,  
Seven for a story not to be told._

He thought of the last line of the rhyme again as he rode into the forest with the tribesmen a short time later. His hands had been briefly untied, then re-bound in front of him; the length of rawhide rope passed under the belly of the cavalry mount to secure his ankles. The reins of the Roman horse were held by the tribesman riding before him. All he could do was hold onto one of the pommels of his saddle. Before, as he had sat against the tree, he'd kept his eyes on the woods, but unlike what had happened in Britannia, no cavalry appeared. The truth had gradually seeped in: there would be no rescue this time, no going back to the encampment. No Romans. No surgeon.

The party of raiders and their captive disappeared into the forest, the horses' hoofbeats gradually fading away. After a while, the woodland birds began to cautiously sing again, and aside from the bodies in the clearing, it was as if nothing had ever happened there.

Gregorius sat, head in his hands. It had been three days since the patrol had discovered the massacre in the woods. Longinus had sent them out after the forest shadows had begun to grow long and there was still no sign of James and his escort. A scout had come pounding back into the camp, dismounting in a sliding rush in front of the centurion. Gregorius had been watching, had seen Longinus's face grow first pale and then brick red as the man sat heavily on a nearby stool.

Eight Roman soldiers dead and desecrated in the Teutonic forest. A valuable slave missing. And they could do nothing. The orders had been clear before; they were just as clear now. Peace was to be kept at all costs. Longinus's subsequent visit had not eased his mind. The memory of their angry conversation ran through his head.

 _"Gregorius, the matter is over! The truce must be kept!"_

 _"And that's it? We're just going to forget this ever happened?"_

 _The centurion had heaved a deep sigh. "No. You know that's not my point."_

 _Both men were on their feet, the surgeon leaning heavily on his staff. His leg was aching but he ignored it. "I need James back," he said._

 _"He's a slave."_

 _"He's my assistant."_

 _"I'll assign you a new assistant."_

 _"I don't want a new assistant, I want James," the surgeon said, his voice a low growl._

 _"He's a slave!" Longinus shot back. "Slaves are replaceable!"_

 _"Not this one!" Gregorius shouted. Lifting his staff, he slammed it hard against the main tent pole. The bang resounded in the still air, and both men stood in stunned silence._

 _Longinus stared at his friend. The surgeon stared back, defiance clear in his eyes. After a long silence, the centurion looked away and cleared his throat._

 _"I will send out feelers," he said quietly. "Try and find out which group has taken him. Who might have a new healer that just happens to be Judean." He looked back at Gregorius. "It's all I can do for now."_

 _The surgeon nodded; there seemed to be something in his throat preventing him from speaking. The centurion left, pulling his cloak about him._

 _Gregorius was suddenly exhausted. He started to lean again on his staff, but it didn't feel quite right and he looked down. It was cracked; a long split ran the length of the staff, threatening to break the wooden shaft in two._

  
Now he raised his head, watching his new assistant move clumsily about the medical tent. _Clod-hopper,_ he thought. _Farm boy. Wouldn't know Catullus if the poet himself were there propositioning him._ Each day of the past three had been progressively worse. There was no one to joke with, no one to discuss literature with, no one to ... talk to. Every time he saw the roan pony among the other camp horses, he had to turn away.

He clenched one hand into a fist and slammed it into his palm. _It isn't fair,_ he thought, _after so long, to have it snatched away so soon._ He refused to allow himself to think what "it" was. The surgeon was re-learning what it was like to be lonely. It was a hard lesson.

  


* * *

  
The rawhide cord was cut and James was hauled roughly off his horse, hands still bound in front of him. He raised his head and studied the barbarian camp, carefully noting the smallest details.

The camp was clean and bustling with life. Warriors and farmers strode with equal purpose among the tents, and unlike the Roman encampment, there were women and children everywhere.

James gasped as his shoulders were abruptly seized. The barbarian chieftain held him in place, his grip like iron as he spoke.

"Androcles," he said. "This is your place now. If you try and run we will find you and hurt you. Badly." His tone was perfectly level, as if he were discussing the merits of a particular hunting dog. "You were a healer for the Romans, now you are a healer for us." The chieftain's blue eyes held his own in a grip as strong as the hands on his shoulders. "Do you understand these things?"

 _We are deep in the forest,_ James thought. _I would never find my way back. The trail is lost._ He nodded and dropped his eyes. It wasn't good enough for the leader, who stepped back and muttered something loud enough for the other warriors to hear.

One of the tribesmen who had pulled him off the horse moved forward and hooked a foot behind James's right leg. The slave grunted as he found himself on his knees, rough hands holding him tightly. The chieftain's right hand curled into James's hair, pulling his head back so that he was looking up into the other man's face. "I said, do you understand these things?" he asked again. The voice was lower but still calm.

The slave tried to swallow but his throat was dry with fear. "I ... yes, I understand," he finally managed to get out. A slow smile spread across the chieftain's face.

"Good," he said. "I am called Ario. I am your new master."

He turned on his heel and strode off, not looking to see if James followed. The slave hesitated for only a moment, then awkwardly got to his feet and stepped forward into his new life.

* * *

  
 _My lord,_

 _It has been a month now since I was taken, and much has happened. I can only compose this letter in the privacy of my mind; there is no way it will ever reach you._

 _Oddly enough these wild forest folk seem to know more Greek than Latin -- the chieftain Ario, my new master, is the only one with a sound command of Latin. The spoken Greek is badly accented, and rough, but still it is a great shock to hear my boyhood tongue in these dense forests, and perhaps proves the superiority of the Attic language ..._

No. Start again.

 _My lord,_

 _It has been a month now since I was taken, and much has happened. I can only compose this letter in the privacy of my mind; there is no way it will ever reach you. Still, it is something to occupy my time and is an interesting exercise._

 _I find myself wondering how you are; if your leg hurts, if your new assistant (for you must have one, Longinus would make sure of that) is preparing your white willow doses properly. Tell him ..._

This was foolishness.

 _My lord,_

 _It is James, he that you once called your companion. I hope you have not forgotten me already. I have much to tell you; I hope your enquiring mind will find it interesting._

  


* * *

  
James bent forward on the stool, using the tips of his fingers to gently inspect the brawny arm stretched out across his lap. The arm belonged to a burly warrior sitting next to him. It bore a long, deep cut that was slowly staining the slave's leather tunic a dark crimson. James ignored it, just as the tribesman ( _Eoin,_ James thought, _this one's name is Eoin_ ) ignored what must've been no small degree of pain from the injury.

 _My lord,_

 _There was an incident this morning._

Grasping the warrior's hand, James slowly and carefully bent the man's arm, first at the wrist, then the elbow, making sure there was no underlying tendon damage. Eoin watched curiously. The cut had been made with something very sharp; there were no ragged edges of flesh. James wondered briefly how it had happened -- if the warrior had been fighting or dancing -- and just as quickly dismissed the thought. It didn't matter. The wound looked fairly clean, and James held out hope that it wouldn't fester. He reached for a clean cloth and a flask of ammonia.

 _Freya's chickens got out._

Bending closer, James began to clean the cut more thoroughly.

 _They scattered through the camp, fluttering and squawking._

Eoin's massive hand clenched into a fist at the ammonia's sting. James saw a bit of dirt and teased it out, then wet the cloth again and continued cleaning.

 _Freya was running after them, people were trying to catch them, the chickens were dodging every which way._

The cleaning done, James put the flask and cloth back on the table and took up a long steel needle and a length of dried gut. In elementary Greek and pantomime, he indicated to Eoin what he was about to do. The warrior nodded.

 _The chickens were finally gathered in, and Freya's husband demanded to know how they'd gotten out. The whole camp was having a good laugh at his family's expense, and he was furious._

Working slowly and carefully, James began to stitch up the cut.

 _It turned out one of their slaves had neglected to securely fasten the latch, and when they counted the recaptured birds, three of the best layers were gone._

Up and down, in and out. The steel needle flashed, and Eoin remained perfectly quiet.

 _So Freya's husband killed the slave._

James stopped for a moment, looking at Eoin. The warrior took a breath and gestured for James to go on.

 _He ran him through with a spear, and the slave died pinned to the ground, with his hands around the spear haft._

The stitching done, James tied off the ends of the gut and reached again for the ammonia.

 _This is the second slave I have seen killed since my taking. The first one was beaten to death in a drunken rage._

As gently as possible, he re-cleaned the closed cut and the flesh around it. He could hear Eoin hissing softly.

 _This was for Freya's chickens._

James sat back. He'd been sweating and hadn't even realized it, and he swiped at his forehead with his sleeve. Eoin flexed his arm, flinching just a little as the stitches pulled with the motion. He and the slave looked at each other, and after a moment the warrior grinned. Reaching out, he clapped James on the shoulder with his good hand, almost knocking him off his stool. James recovered his balance and smiled back.

 _I do not think I will have a long life in this place._

 _Once your servant,  
James_

  


* * *

  
Gregorius sat, staring at the compound the farm boy had mismeasured. It was the fifth one that day. He composed a short letter in his mind.

 _James,_

 _Your replacement is an idiot._

 _Your master, Gregorius_

Turning away, he rubbed at his eyes with one hand.

  
A few days later --

 _James,_

 _Your replacement is still an idiot. He doesn't crush the white willow bark finely enough; it dissolves unevenly in the tea, which causes the patients to choke. Apparently he's never heard of Hippocrates._

 _Your master, Gregorius_

  
A cold wind blasted through the Roman camp. The horses whickered and shook their shaggy heads.

 _James,_

 _Your replacement will always be an idiot. He doesn't know Pliny from Petronius, and worse, doesn't care. Why did you have to get yourself kidnapped?_

 _Your master, Gregorius_

  
The Roman sat down heavily on his cot. He'd seen a few patients today -- the usual complaints. A headache, a broken leg, a few toes crushed by an errant horse's hoof. He looked at his scroll-case; he could read, but there was no one to discuss with, to exchange ideas with, to laugh ...

 _James,_

 _I don't have anyone to talk to. I miss you._

 _Gregorius_

He looked up as Longinus swept the tent-flap aside. The centurion's face was flushed almost as red as his hair, and the thrill of the chase was in his eyes.

"We've found him," he said.

A dog was barking somewhere in the camp. Longinus sat at the surgeon's desk.

"He's here, just over this river," he said. He jabbed at the map with a stubby forefinger, pointing out the topography of the land. "It's a relatively small group, less than a hundred all told. One of the sub-tribes of the Sicambrii, probably paying tribute to the local king in the area."

The centurion leaned back, grinning at the surgeon. "Gossip travels swiftly among the tribes -- the news they'd caught themselves a Judean healer didn't stay a secret long." He shook his head then, his grin changing to a grimace. "Which is bad news for your assistant. Their leader, Ario, has been upsetting the balance of power along the river with his repeated truce-breaking. The other chieftains have been talking about reining him in -- and murdering his prize captive would be an object lesson. Our friends the Ubii have agreed to help, but we have to move quickly."

Both men bent close to the map again, poring over its every line. "I'll send a delegation -- twenty-five or thirty men -- bargain for his return. If Ario refuses we'll enlist the help of the Ubii then." The centurion's lips thinned to a pursed line. "It galls me," he muttered, "having to trust these people. The Ubii say they are our friends but I know even they wish us gone." He leaned back, sighing. "Still, there's no other way that I can see without further bloodshed, and Rome wants this frontier to stay quiet."

Gregorius nodded, rising from his seat. "When do we leave?" he asked.

Longinus stared at him, his satisfaction at having found James draining away. "What do you mean? _You're_ not going!"

The surgeon limped around the medical tent, excitement evident in his every move. "Of course I'm going," he snapped.

"Out of the question." Longinus shook his head. "We've already lost a slave with valuable medical training. I'm not taking a chance on losing our Medicus too if something goes wrong."

Gregorius stopped pacing. Longinus never called him by his formal title unless he was truly serious. The surgeon took his seat again and clasped his hands together in front of him.

"Longinus," he said softly. "How long have you known me?"

"Too long for my own good," the centurion growled, and was rewarded with a grin.

"Then you know I have to do this."

Longinus, setting his elbows on the table, rested his head in his hands. In truth, he had known the surgeon for ten years, before the terrible wounding that had taken his mobility and made him a cripple. Gregorius had been a different man then -- still equipped with a caustic wit that could sear with a well-turned phrase, but less quick to use that wit to drive others away. He'd had more than one friend then.

The centurion had seen some of that Gregorius return, after he'd requisitioned James. Longinus was no fool; he knew he could be the surgeon's friend and still not keep up with that nimble, ever-restless mind. James could. And James was a slave. If they could get him back, then maybe, just maybe, the man Longinus had known so long ago would come all the way back. He sighed deeply and laid his hands flat on the rough-hewn table.

"I'm going to regret this," he said.

Somewhere nearby, the dog continued to bark.

This was going to be difficult.

Three days later, Longinus knew just how difficult.

Only he and Gregorius had been allowed into the barbarian camp. The rest of the escort was settled a league away, too far if a rescue was required.

 _Not that there'd be anyone to rescue,_ the centurion thought sourly. _Thirty or so Teutonic warriors against two men, one of them a cripple, are less than useless odds._

They were in front of Ario's tent, seated on hide-bound chairs. Ario's lieutenants were ranged behind the seated chieftain, watching the Romans' every move. The language of negotiation was Latin, with one of the lieutenants translating softly for the others.

There had been no sign of James.

Ario said something, and Longinus dragged his attention back to the negotiations -- if they could be called that.

"This does not make sense," Ario was saying. "You have a healer --" he gestured at the surgeon, "-- and we did not. If we returned your slave to you, you would have _two_ healers and we would have none." The chieftain shook his head. "We need a healer, you don't. You don't need to have him back."

Longinus started to speak but was interrupted by Gregorius.

"He is my assistant," the surgeon said. "He is valuable to me for his knowledge."

"He is more valuable to _us,"_ Ario growled.

"He is the property of Rome," Longinus said bluntly. "You have taken something that belongs to the Empire."

Ario smiled. "The Empire's writ does not run this far north," he replied, "and we can do with him whatever we wish."

Raising his right hand, he snapped his fingers. Two of the taller lieutenants stepped aside, revealing the man behind them.

James.

Longinus laid a cautioning hand on the surgeon's arm.

The slave was bound, his hands tied behind him and a leather gag in his mouth. His eyes widened at the sight of the two Romans and he gave a slight shake of his head.

 _You shouldn't be here._

The surgeon leaned forward, quickly checking James for signs of mistreatment. There were no _visible_ bruises --

He forced himself to look away and fixed a level gaze on Ario.

"I want him back."

Ario met the Roman's gaze and stared back. "You haven't given me a good enough reason."

Gregorius raised his chin, still holding Ario's eyes.

"He's my friend."

Longinus saw James's eyes widen even more. The silence after the surgeon's words seemed to stretch on forever.

Ario's barking laugh was loud and abrupt. "Now I _know_ this is some kind of trick," he said. He stared at Gregorius, anger and disgust at the perceived lie clearly visible. "Romans don't call _slaves_ their friends." He rose from his chair, flinging his long fur cloak from his sword-arm. "Get out of this camp. Now."

They rode away from the German camp in silence. Even Gregorius had admitted it was all they could do with such odds.

Riding next to the surgeon, Longinus had looked at his friend worriedly.

"We'll get him back," he said. "This was just a first try, an exploratory mission. We'll work with the Ubii --"

The surgeon grunted softly. "Rome will never sanction it," he replied. "The efforts of the Empire are not to be expended for one Judean slave in a German forest. He's --"

There were shouts behind them, a clash of swords. The Romans pulled their mounts to a halt.

"The barbarian camp," Longinus said. "It's under attack." He pulled at his mount's reins, causing the horse to take a stutter-step backward. "They lied," he growled. "The Ubii said no attack was imminent -- I should've known better. These people know nothing but battle."

He saw the look on the surgeon's face and reached out to grasp the reins of the other man's chestnut mare. "Gregorius, _think,"_ he urged. "We're almost to our own camp -- we can get more men --"

The Roman pulled the horse's head away from the centurion. The mare danced a little, edging sideways as she sensed the conflict between the two men.

"Those raiders want to kill Ario's men -- and James. Not Romans." He yanked the reins hard to the right, turning his mount around. "You can get reinforcements -- I'm going back." Touching his heels to the horse's sides, he was gone.

"You fool," Longinus muttered. "Ario's men will want to kill _you."_ He sighed wearily. This was not going well at all.

  
James stood in the middle of Ario's tent, his churning stomach providing a near-constant reminder of the state of his nerves. When the attackers swept in he had been quickly untied, the gag torn from his mouth. A shortsword had been thrust into one hand, and he'd been shoved into the chieftain's tent. Now all he could do was wait and see who entered next -- Ario or his killers.

 _Is there much difference?_ he thought bleakly.

Gregorius slipped off the back of the chestnut mare and peered through the trees.

He could see warriors fighting, hear the rough clang of swords on armor. Knots of men were battling back and forth; the scene was one of chaos, of slaughter. A single strong voice rose above the din -- Ario, rallying his tribesmen.

The surgeon began to hobble towards the camp, moving from tree to tree, ducking behind each for a moment before moving on.

The raiders appeared to be falling back, and he hesitated a moment before continuing.

  
James looked up as the tent flap opened.

 _Ario._

"The raid is failing," the chieftain said. He was gripping a lance in his right hand, teeth bared in a ferocious smile. He stepped close. "Put down the sword."

James stared at him. _No difference,_ he thought. _Life now, but how long until a rival tries again or I'm killed by these people for no reason? The Roman is gone now, for good._

Ario was watching, eyes narrowed. "You want to run, don't you?"

 _No,_ the slave thought. _I want to die._ And he raised the sword.

Ario laughed. "You are no fighter," he said, and, swiftly reversing the lance, swung the butt end like a scythe, catching James a hard blow to the side of the head.

Brightness exploded inside James's skull and he grunted, dropping like a half-empty sack of wheat. In an instant Ario was on top of him, straddling his prone body and using his knees to pin the slave's elbows to the dirt floor.

"You're not going anywhere," Ario said. "Not to another tribe, not back to the Romans to lick their sandaled feet."

James shook his head, trying to clear it of the firesparks that had taken up residence. It was hard to breathe under the weight of the warrior chieftain. He squinted up; Ario's eyes were bright, the pupils enlarged and glinting with battle-lust.

 _This is the way the gazelle must feel,_ he thought in a daze, _before it is devoured by the lion._

Ario leaned down. He had picked up the fallen shortsword and held it now at the slave's throat.

"I'm not going to kill you," he said. "We still need a healer." Ario bent closer, his face a finger's-breadth away. His breath was hot and smelled faintly of wild garlic. "I'll have you castrated instead."

James tried to buck from his hips, to throw the other man off balance. It was like trying to sway a forest oak. Ario simply laid the sword aside and shifted position to take hold of the slave's wrists, pinning them on either side of James's head.

"Perhaps losing your balls will teach you a lesson." The warrior chieftain's face filled James's entire field of vision. "I'm going to break you, Androcles. That I can promise."

There was a sudden, resounding _thwack,_ the hollow sound of a melon splitting. Ario slumped sideways. Gregorius was standing at the slave's feet, his oaken staff still gripped in both hands. It was broken, split where the crack had weakened the wood.

"His name," the surgeon panted, "is _James."_

James lay on his back, wondering dully if he was going to throw up as the surgeon's long fingers gently explored his scalp. His vision wavered, doubling every now and again in accompaniment to his pounding headache.

The Roman's face swam above his.

"James." His voice was soft, the tone urgent. "We have to go while there's still a diversion. You need to get up."

The slave digested the words. It was difficult to think just at the moment, but then the surgeon grasped his wrists and pulled him into a sitting position.

For a few nauseated seconds James's stomach rebelled, but he choked down the bile in his throat. The Roman held onto Ario's lance as he helped him to stand, and kept one hand on his shoulder as James swayed unsteadily.

"Ready?" the surgeon asked.

James gulped. He didn't _feel_ ready for anything, but if they didn't move now the chance was gone. He nodded, and winced at the jolt of pain that caused.

The surgeon limped to the back of the tent and lifted the heavy cloth. Both men ducked under the fabric wall.

Behind the chieftain's tent, there was no one within sight. Dusk was falling, and the sounds of battle were dying away. At any moment someone could come around a corner of the tent and raise the alarm.

The Roman shifted the lance to use as a makeshift staff. Drawing a deep breath, he looked searchingly at the slave.

"Let's go," he said.

A light snow had begun to fall.

  
James tried to listen to the surgeon as they stumbled through the rapidly darkening forest. It was difficult -- his head felt as if someone was repeatedly striking an anvil in it, and black dots kept tracing tiny comet paths across his vision.

"I don't think they'll come after us right away," the Roman was saying. He was stumping along, the lance providing an awkward substitute for his staff. "They'll be taking care of their wounded and dead, and besides it's getting dark and the weather's turning."

"Yes, good thing we're the only ones out in it," James muttered.

The surgeon smiled then, just a little. "We'll be fine," he said. "Once we reach --" He stopped suddenly, looking around. "My horse ..." There was an odd expression on the Roman's face. James stole a glance at the ground.

The snow hadn't quite covered the dirt, and there were hoofprints still visible in the fading light.

There was no horse to go with them.

"By the gods," the Roman swore softly.

"I thought you didn't believe in the gods, my lord," the slave said. It was all he could think of to say.

"I don't," the surgeon replied. "And this shows why."

The two men looked at each other.

"Well," the physician said at last, "the longer we stand here the sooner we freeze. Our camp is that way."

They set out again.

  


* * *

"I was happy in Egypt," the surgeon said.

"Were you, my lord?" James asked. He kept his eyes on the forest floor, trying to look out for fallen branches that might reach up and take hold of their ankles.

"I was."

The going had gotten progressively more difficult as true dark fell and the snow continued to swirl out of the low clouds.

"Why was that, my lord?"

Something swooped low overhead. James flinched instinctively. A nighthawk. An owl.

"It was warm."

The slave couldn't hide a smile, but it quickly faded. He knew the Roman's leg was aching; his steps were slower and more tentative. They would have to stop soon to rest.

"No apple wine this time, eh, James?"

"No, my lord," James agreed. "No apple wine this time."

They kept walking.

The high-pitched _yip_ close by caught James by surprise.

"Another night hunter," the Roman murmured, and didn't stop.

The first time the surgeon fell, the slave was able to help him up. They had gone only a few more feet when he fell again.

James knelt in the snow beside him, his hands gentle on the physician's torso. The Roman rolled onto his back, squinting against the icy crystals still falling from the sky.

"We'll ... rest here a short while," he gasped.

"My father wanted me to be a soldier."

The surgeon sat on the ground, his back braced against a tree trunk. James had tucked the Roman's woolen cloak around the man's legs, trying to impart a little warmth to the ruined thigh muscle. He sat silently, listening.

"I wanted to solve puzzles." The surgeon shook his head, remembering, and ran a hand through his close-cropped hair. "We compromised, if that's what one would call it. Now he's pensioned off in Gaul and I'm --" He stopped.

"You're what, my lord?"

The Roman sighed and scrubbed at his face. "James. You don't have to call me that."

"But I do, my lord." _And you're avoiding my question,_ he thought. The surgeon glanced at him. James twisted the iron cuff on his left wrist, and the Roman looked away.

The hours of the night passed slowly. The two men were staggering, each barely holding up the other. The snow was falling heavily now, wet flakes that soaked them to the skin and had set them shivering uncontrollably.

They'd heard shouting in the distance, but neither could tell if the voices were speaking Latin or not. It didn't matter -- after a short time the voices died away and the forest was silent again.

They both fell this time, and for a while they both lay there, panting for breath and trembling with the cold and exhaustion.

The surgeon turned his head so that his cheek rested on the cold ground.

"James. You go on."

The slave rested a moment more, then slowly pushed himself to his hands and knees. His headache had long since faded to a dull throb.

"No," he said. "We both stay or we both go."

The Roman laughed -- a short barking sound without humor. "I can't go. My leg --" He gestured downwards, and James saw the bitterness twist his face.

"Then we stay," James said.

James was gathering pine boughs for a makeshift bed when he saw the tracks. They weren't animal tracks -- James was no woodsman, but there was a dragging line by one set of prints, as if someone had been using ... a staff. Or a lance, in place of a broken staff.

The tracks were fast disappearing beneath the fresh snowfall.

 _Circles. All this time._

For a terrible moment, panic rose in his chest as he considered the consequences. _No wonder we never found the Roman camp, in the dark and the storm --_

The wind came up, rattling the bare branches and sending more flurries onto his head. As quickly as it had come on, the panic eased.

 _In all probability we will die here tonight._

James's head was aching again; his stomach clenched suddenly, and he turned away to vomit into the snow.

 _At least the pine boughs are more comfortable than the hard ground_ , James thought. He just wished he'd been able to find more of them in the pale snowlight.

He and the surgeon lay on their sides next to each other; chest to back, the taller Roman curled around the slave, his right arm tight against James's belly. The physician's woolen cloak was spread as far as it would go over them both.

 _"Midway upon the journey of our life  
I found myself within a forest dark,  
For the straightforward pathway had been lost."_

The surgeon's breath was warm on the back of James's neck.

"Who is that, my lord? Catullus? Vergil?"

The Roman laughed softly. "Nothing you'd know," he said. "A bit of verse I was thinking of writing myself someday."

James shifted a little, wrapping his hands around the surgeon's right hand.

"I shall look forward to reading it ... someday," he said.

There was a short silence, then --

"I saw the tracks," the physician murmured.

James held perfectly still. "My lord?"

"The tracks," the physician repeated. "I walked a bit, to keep my leg from stiffening. I saw them, opposite of where you were gathering boughs." He sighed a little. "You weren't going to tell me."

James swallowed hard, trying to keep the misery out of his voice. "I ... no, my lord."

"I have heard stories out of Asia," the Roman said, his tone calm and contemplative, "of devices called South-pointers, that divine the true poles. I will have to acquire one of these devices."

"Yes, my lord," James whispered.

The surgeon's arm tightened around the slave's ribs; his hand squeezed the slave's hands.

"We will go to sleep now," he said softly. "There is nothing to fear. We will speak more of this in the morning."

The tears stung hard behind James's eyelids.

"Good night, James."

"Good night ... Gregorius."

He could feel the Roman's smile against his neck, and then his even, slow breaths.

* * *

 _It's the fever-hot breath on his face that awakens the surgeon. He's so cold. The only part of him that's really warm is his right hand, still tucked against James's stomach. The slave's stomach -- who's breathing in his face?_

 _Gregorius opens his eyes, slowly, trying to find focus in the half-light of a full moon reflecting off fallen snow._

 _Eyes that shimmer like old silver coins stare into his. A black nose on a long muzzle comes close; a warm tongue tries an experimental lick to his forehead._

 _The Roman lies as still as he can. Lupus, he thinks. A wolf has found us. There's movement in front of him, next to James, and Gregorius amends his own sentence. Wolves, plural._

 _He takes shallow breaths as the two wolves examine them. One of the animals is very large, black with silver guard hairs; the other is only slightly smaller and gray._

 _The wolves pace a tight circle around the men, snuffling and sniffing the air. Their ears are cocked, alert to the slightest sound._

 _After a moment they seem to come to a decision; the gray wolf stops beside James and turns in place, pawing at the ground. The black wolf is behind the surgeon, he can feel it._

 _The gray wolf, its nest established, lies down beside James. Its body curves inward, nose tucking under tail, back pressed against James's chest._

 _There are scratching sounds, and Gregorius knows the black wolf too is making a sleeping place. There's a sudden, heavy warmth against his back as the animal settles down._

 _Gregorius watches as James, still deeply asleep, pokes a hand out from under the cloak and buries it in his wolf's rough fur._

 _This is a dream, Gregorius thinks. All a dream._

 _There's a doggy, whuffling exhalation behind him, as if to say **I disagree.**_

 _The surgeon's eyes close as the canine heat seeps into his body. The moon disappears; the snow begins to fall again, slowly covering the men and animals huddled together._

 _Dawn, and the wolves are dreaming. They're running through the forest in great loping strides, every nerve alive, every sense engaged. They call to each other -- it's always **now** , and now is always good, but there's danger._

 _The black wolf wakes and raises his head, sniffing the air. Men are coming. With a low grunt, he rises to his feet, shaking off the snow. He awakens his companion, and after a moment they both trot away into the woods._

 _No one sees them go, and soon the drifting snow has covered their tracks._

  


* * *

  
The first thing James heard as consciousness returned was the voice of Longinus.

"You can argue all you like, Gregorius." James suppressed a smile. This was the tone he had heard the centurion use many times before, never to any avail. "The truth is, if we hadn't found you when we did, both of you would be icicles, ready for Ultima Thule!"

A soft grumble -- it must've been from the surgeon.

"No," Longinus snapped. "There were no wolves. None. You just got lucky."

James lay still. He was on a cot, warm woolen blankets lofted on top of him. He tested his fingers and toes by wiggling them -- there was some small pain in his feet, but otherwise he felt all right. Sleepy and weak, but all right. He kept his eyes closed and continued to listen.

"I'm still waiting for the story of how you found James at all -- our sources told me Ario was discovered dead in his own tent from a split skull."

"He was unlucky." A low, rumbling voice. Gregorius.

Longinus snorted. "Unlucky, or did he meet with a certain surgeon's staff?"

There was a short silence; the surgeon said something that James strained to hear but couldn't quite.

An even longer silence ensued.

"You can't," the centurion said at last. "He's not yours."

There was another low rumble from Gregorius.

"No. He belongs to the Army, to Rome. You would have to petition to buy him, and even then the request would likely be refused. He's too valuable to set free."

 _Me. They're talking about me._ The realization hit James with the force of a blow to the chest. _The surgeon wants to buy me._ Despite himself, he made a small gasping noise.

The surgeon was instantly beside him, hand on his shoulder.

"James. How do you feel?"

The slave opened his eyes. Gregorius was bending over him; he looked much the worse for wear, drawn and haggard, but there was concern in his piercing blue eyes.

"I am ... well, my lord," James replied softly.

At the rough-hewn table, Longinus stood up, tucking his helmet under one arm.

"We will continue this conversation later, Gregorius," he said. "In the meantime, you might be interested to know of our new posting."

The surgeon's gaze shifted.

"There has been too much trouble of late along this disputed frontier," the centurion said. "We are being removed, assigned to a quieter district." He drew his bright red cloak close about him. "Gaul. I believe it's near your father's estate."

With one more glance at the other two men, Longinus strode from the tent.

The surgeon and the slave stared at one another, until the Roman drew a shuddering breath and briefly closed his eyes.

"My lord?" James asked hesitantly. "Do you need the white willow bark? I could prepare you some --"

"No. No." The surgeon shook his head. "I would almost prefer the wolves to this." Letting go of James's shoulder, he gently brushed the hair back from the slave's forehead. "There is much I need to tell you. And ... I think there is much you need to tell me, if we are to truly trust one another."

  
~ (Still Not) The End

 **SOURCE NOTES:**

Gregorius's quote on warlike tribes is from Ovid's "Barbarian Incursions", and is [here](http://www.tkline.freeserve.co.uk/OvidTristiaBkThree.htm#_Toc34217042).  
The bit of "original verse" that Gregorius quotes to James is of course the opening to Dante Alighieri's _The Divine Comedy_. More may be found [here](http://italian.about.com/library/anthology/dante/blinferno001.htm).  
Reference to early compasses as "South-pointers" may be found [here](http://www.smith.edu/hsc/museum/ancient_inventions/compass2.html).  
A Latin translation of Gregorius and James's mental letters to each other may be found [here](http://purrla.livejournal.com/23669.html#cutid1), courtesy of [](http://purridot.livejournal.com/profile)[**purridot**](http://purridot.livejournal.com/) and [](http://rubberbutton.livejournal.com/profile)[**rubberbutton**](http://rubberbutton.livejournal.com/).

  



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